Silence grew between them, heavy as a millstone. She had just steeled herself to look into the dark eyes, to put the man in his place, when the stillness was broken by the clatter of hoofbeats in the lane, accompanied by the rattle of wheels.
He stiffened, his fingers clenching on the sun-warmed wood of the platform. “Who may your visitors be?”
She gazed down at his hands, browned from outdoor labor, smudged with dirt, and green-stained. Beautifully-shaped masculine hands, strong, purposeful, gentle. Too fine for a gardener.
“What business is it of yours who visits? I’ve a good mind to have you punished for your effrontery.” Lord! She hated how she sounded—she usually got on so well with all the staff. But this man was different. Disquieting.
The fingers removed themselves, and he backed away, head and shoulders bowed, a picture of apology. “Your forgiveness, lady, if I spoke out of turn. I just wanted to know the best flowers to pick for a table display—if ladies are visiting rather than gentlemen, I’d choose differently.”
A heavy step crunched on the gravel outside the walled garden. Alys’ heart thundered as the gate opened, revealing the menacing form of Sir Thomas Kirlham. She felt herself jerk like a child caught with his thumb in the cream pot.
“Oh!” She looked down, but the gardener had gone, as softly as he’d come, and a glance around revealed him exiting the garden by the other gate. Good. Her censure must have reminded him of his place. If he had any sense, he wouldn’t approach her again, regardless of Kate’s orders.
As she gathered her skirts and swept down from the platform to greet Sir Thomas, she vowed it would have to be Kate who kissed the alluring gardener, not her. Mistress Alys Barchard must never stoop so low, not even in defense of her embroidered pocket.
Chapter Two
Sir Christopher Ludlow sat glumly in the gardener’s hut, his long legs stretched out before him. Damn Kate Aspinall! A pox, too, upon the woman whose schemes had banished him from court. But worse than these two was Queen Elizabeth’s spymaster, Sir Francis Walsingham, who deserved a thousand curses for sending Kit to this rustic backwater.
He ripped a leaf from a young box plant, then rolled it between his fingers, inhaling the rank scent. This was no task for a man like him—Walsingham should have known he’d attract attention if he tried to pass himself off as one of the lower orders. To infiltrate a household such as this, he’d have done better posing as a merchant traveler, or long-lost relative—at least such roles were closer to his own class.
Already, he’d been singled out by the lady of the house, and dragged into one of her schemes. How could he be long in the company of Kate Aspinall without her suspecting he wasn’t what he seemed—the lady might be more astute than she wished people to think. Indeed, she must be, if there was any truth in Walsingham’s suspicion that she—or her cousin—was harboring a nest of traitors. Was she serving the Spanish, mayhap, or the Catholic Queen of Scots? Or did Mistress Aspinall plot for her own ends?
Sighing, he turned his thoughts to Alys Barchard. If Kate was not duplicitous but was truly as shallow and stupid as she appeared, then Alys was the one to watch. She was deep, serious—with a haunted look in those charming blue-grey eyes. The servants both respected and pitied Alys—no family but her cousin, no prospects unless she married. But with only her pedigree behind her, she’d be hard put to it to find a husband. With so little to hope for, she had every reason to seek the aid of forces antagonistic to the Crown—if they helped her oust Kate, she’d inherit Selwood Manor.
How was such a woman to be tricked into betraying herself? Alys knew how to hide her feelings. She had pretended disinterest, yet he knew she was aware of him as a man—their fingers had barely touched, but he’d felt the tremor in hers.
So, Alys could assume a mask—did Kate wear one also? The young widow had ordered him to kiss her later on, as if they were lovers, just to play a trick on Alys. Smiling like a serpent, she’d warned him to obey if he wished to remain in her employ. What could he do but agree? His orders from Walsingham were to remain in the household, gathering information, for as long as it was safe to do so.
Kit crushed the box leaf between his fingers and flicked it across the hut. How would he carry out his duty? Should he kiss Kate with all the ability for which he was known? No—he must trample his pride, and not reveal his skills to the woman. The kiss must be unaccomplished, as would be expected of a rough country fellow.
Staring up into the web-strewn beams of the roof, another sigh escaped him. A pity he hadn’t been commanded to kiss Alys. One could glean a great deal about a woman from her kiss. Should the occasion ever present itself, he must be sure to take full advantage.
Chapter Three
Why did Sir Thomas Kirlham always make Alys panic? Was it his considerable girth which, accentuated by the padded shoulders of his doublet, made him look like a great bear? Or was it his sheer lack of lightness—ink-black beard, beetling brows, black velvet doublet and hose… black frown.
“Sir, will you take some refreshment? Elderflower cordial? We have a few lemons.”
“Anon. Where is Mistress Aspinall?” He exuded impatience.
“In the gardens somewhere. Shall I send for her?”
“I can find her myself.”
Anxiety pricked Alys’ spine as she hurried along in Kirlham’s wake. A serving girl, Lettice, emerged from the kitchen as they passed, and froze. Alys caught her attention. “Elderflower, if you please. The best.”
Lettice nodded and vanished into the house, as Alys struggled to match Kirlham’s stride.
Then a giggle, low and
